


Tidbits From the Haunted House

by paint_me_a_revolution



Series: Tales From the Haunted House [1]
Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: Just little scraps that don't fit in the wider narrative, but that I want people to see.





	1. Camille Desmoulins, Human Disaster

     “You’re a force to be reckoned with,” Lucile says, wrapping the end of a plaster around itself and giving Camille’s injured finger a kiss. “How did you even manage that?”

     “It’s just a paper-cut,” Camille mumbles. For a big man, he’s certainly made himself very small on Lucile’s cot. “I just didn’t want it to bleed all over my costume.”

     Lucile spares the bloody scrubs a glance. “Really?” she asks, brows creeping toward her hairline. She can feel the start of a laugh creeping up, and she swallows it down. Camille blushes.

     “Fake blood isn’t a biohazard.”

     “Very true,” Lucile says, amused. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hurting yourself just to come see me.”

     Camille squawks, clearly mortified. “I would _never!”_ he cries, practically leaping off of Lucile’s cot. “Luce, are you serious?”

     “Of course I’m not.” Lucile presses a kiss to the corner of Camille’s mouth. “But you took me pretty seriously, huh?”

     “I always take you seriously,” Camille says, placated by the gentle touch of her lips. “You know that.”

     Lucile laughs. “Of course you do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazare deals with the immediate aftermath of an unfortunate incident...

     “What’s going on?” Lazare demanded, eyeing the way Maxime was slumped over, the blood oozing out from under a hastily applied bandage.

     “Maxime got into an argument with one of our guests,” Lucile said, her fingers searching for a pulse against his neck. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed as she found it, crouching down. “You’re really fast, honey. Can you calm down?”

     Lazare cleared his throat. “I need to know more,” he said, putting on his most authoritative act. “Do you know _who_ the guest was?”

     Lucile laughed humourlessly. “That Swedish ambassador, Fersen,” she sneered. “He made sure we all knew. Of course, that was _after_ the altercation. Didn’t want special treatment until it could get him out of fucking trouble.”

     Maxime tapped her arm and quietly mumbled, “Stop shouting, Luce.”

     Lazare wasn’t satisfied. “Well, did you resolve it?” he asked.

     “S’fine.” Maxime sounded drunk, an observation that alarmed Lazare. “Ronan punched him.”

     “Ronan _what?”_ Lazare and Lucile cried at the same time. But then Maxime listed over sideways, and Lucile was too busy begging her boyfriend to sit up to deal with the new information. Lazare instructed her to look after Maxime before turning on his heel and rushing into the hallway. He had to deal with Ronan.


End file.
